


a life so free

by vraal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, SO MUCH BANTER PLEASE DO NOT KILL ME, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-08 23:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vraal/pseuds/vraal
Summary: Having to navigate the world as an empath makes Alice extremely dedicated to flying under the radar. You could even go as far as to say that chasing total social invisibility is her thing. Unfortunately, a hardheaded fellow hunter threatens to change all of that.She would rest a lot easier if life didn't keep throwing Dean Winchester in her face, and if things-- like the goddamnapocalypse-- would stop interrupting her peace and quiet. But when has life ever gone the way she wanted?(pre-series to S10, some AU elements)





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> this was spawned from a combination of:
> 
> \- nostalgia rewatch of SPN  
> \- a desire to see what a female character who wouldn't be killed, discarded, or forgotten by the narrative would to do the story and its characters
> 
> enjoy? let's go on this crazy ride together.

 

***

**THE BUNKER**

**LEBANON, KANSAS**

**2014**

***

  
  
  


He finds her before he finds Sam.  
  
The light in the bunker has returned to normal and the blaring alarms have stopped, so she has a perfect view of the maliciously gleeful expression on his face as he approaches her.  
  
“Hey, Alice,” not-Dean Winchester says, passing the axe he’s holding from one hand to the other.  
  
He looks pretty good for someone who’s been tied up for hours, continually injected with human blood, and subjected to constant dousings of holy water. He’s also, without a doubt, the most terrifying thing she’s seen in this line of work. There are no teeth growing out of wrong places, no scales, no mouldering skin; he hasn’t changed, not at all, not physically, which is probably what’s scariest, but his _expression, the expression_ , and his mind, they’re alien. Mismatched. Nothing like the man she knows so well. Loves so much.  
  
“Nothing to say?” he asks, stepping over the debris scattered over the floor. “You didn’t come to visit. Broke my heart.”  
  
_Thud, thud, thud._ His heavy footsteps echo the pounding rhythm of her heart.  
  
“I doubt that,” she says, her voice a thread of sound.  
  
He chuckles. “Always were a clever girl.”  
  
She flinches when he looms closer. He smells like ash and hot stone, an unpleasant waft of sulfur that makes her stomach tighten in nausea, and old booze, clinging to his breath, his shirt, the skin on his face. There’s no aftershave, no fabric softener. Not Dean. She just has to remember that. Not Dean.  
  
“I just want you to know,” she goes on, “I forgive you.”  
  
That actually makes him laugh.  
  
His wholehearted, really-into-it laugh was one of the first things that really struck her as truly _honest_ about him; it was sweet, and carefree, and altogether none of the stuff she ever associated with hunting, or with Winchesters. This version of him laughs like—well, like a demon. She supposes it shouldn’t hurt her. It shouldn’t hurt her at all. But then again, she can say that about a million other situations, ones that affect her despite knowing they shouldn’t.  
  
She had to say it, though, because later—and there always _is_ a later—he’ll be tearing himself up over this, blaming himself, destroying himself.  
  
“Again with the empath bullshit,” he sighs. His tone is so casual: it doesn’t add up with the aggressive way he shoves her against the wall, or the careless manner with which he roots about in her jacket for her hidden dagger. Of course, he knows where it is. The steel glints as he draws it out of its sheath. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m feeling right now, sweetheart?”  
  
The blade presses at her throat. Slides down over her shirt, catches on her jacket buttons, and comes to rest between the last pair of her ribs. Feather-light.  
  
Alice closes her eyes, shutting out the sight of him. She feels the hot trail of tears slide down her cheeks, drip off her chin. Her abilities still mark him, standing there, a strange and malevolent presence.  
  
“Nothing at all,” she whispers. “You’re feeling nothing at all.”  
  
He smiles wide, cheeks dimpling. “Damn straight.”  
  
And then the dagger plunges in.


	2. LOVE BITES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have more prewritten chapters down, but this'll be it for now. let me know what you think! <3
> 
> (and don't worry... they'll be rightfully suspicious of each other soon, rofl)

__

 

***

**SINGER RESIDENCE**

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA**

**1999**

***

  
  


The first time they meet, it’s literally just a matter of seconds.  
  
Dean stops at Bobby’s to drop some things off before heading out for good—he’s still over the _moon_ about being able to go on solo hunts—and goes through the motions. He parks Baby, grabs his duffel, and stomps up the stairs of the porch. Opens the screen door. Stomps inside. Stomps some more.  
  
“Why don’tcha slam the door a little harder? I don’t think the rest of the Midwest heard you,” Bobby says as he drifts around the kitchen, looking for something to eat.  
  
He strikes out for the first few minutes—this _is_ Bobby’s, after all. And then he spots a fresh loaf of banana bread, sitting on a plate, out in the open like some divine offering. It even has a drizzle of a sugary glaze over the top. His mouth is watering, suddenly, very expectedly, and God, he hopes that tastes as good as it looks—and smells.  
  
“Since when do you eat _banana bread_?” Dean asks, inching his way toward the aforementioned goodie.  
  
“Since whenever I damn well please,” Bobby grunts. “And get a knife, you heathen. Don’t go tearin’ at it with your hands.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, _Mom_.”  
  
He cuts himself (a really generous, super thick) slice, levers it onto a napkin, and goes to town on it. The flavor almost makes him black out—in the _good_ way, the kind of way he gets at the first bite of a finely-baked pie. It’s soft and so far from dry, and it's sweet and good Lord, this is probably the best thing he’s had all week. All month. He can’t hold back the happy noise he makes on the second bite. This beauty did _not_ come out of a box.  
  
Bobby snorts in amusement. “You two need a moment?”  
  
He tries to say “oh my God,” which ends up coming out something like “hhooom’gawd” from behind the veritable mountain of banana bread crammed into his mouth.  
  
“Sure I don’t have to leave?”  
  
“S’good, okay?” Dean says defensively, shoulders hunching. He swallows roughly. “Compliments to the chef. Doubt it was you.”  
  
“You’d be right,” Bobby admits. He gestures over his shoulder with a thumb, moving to the side so Dean can have a clear view down the hall and into Bobby’s study.  
  
Through the half-shut door, Dean can see a slim figure bent over the cluttered desk—it strikes him as odd immediately, since Bobby doesn’t allow just about anyone in there. He catches a glimpse of a faded blue tee, a pair of _extremely_ flattering denim shorts (wow, nice glutes), and a head of fine hair so blonde it’s almost white. Well, hello.  
  
Dean raises his brows, suggestive enough that Bobby reaches around to wallop him.  
  
Bobby leans in, voice lowering to a warning rumble. “Git your head outta the gutter for one darn second, will you? She’s a guest. And a good girl. You keep it to yourself, y’hear?”  
  
“Loud and clear,” Dean says, eyes still glued to the wonderful behind sat on that desk chair way down the hall.   
  
He gets another smack for his answer.  
  
Dean is definitely curious—because how couldn’t he be?—but he also has banana bread to get to, and no investigation or scouting is happening while Bobby Singer is standing there, looking at him suspiciously from under the rim of a battered baseball hat like he’s about to go postal.  
  
So he goes about his business without asking any questions, gets seconds (and then thirds), all without being too obvious about his staring.  
  
The guest never emerges, and Bobby doesn’t mention her again.  
  
When Dean leaves, just as he’s backing Baby up and out of the lot, he spares the girl in the study one last thought. A fleeting, momentary thought, but a thought nonetheless. Maybe he can learn more later.

  
  


***

  
  


’Later’ turns out to three days after the fact, and Dean doesn’t exactly come back in the same shape he left in. It’s late afternoon, almost evening, but the lights inside are all on.  
  
He makes it to the couch before he realizes Bobby hasn’t come marching down the stairs to berate him for bleeding on everything and generally making a mess. Weird.  
  
Almost as weird as the fact that he’s having an entirely realistic hallucination of a smoking hot blonde sitting in the doudy armchair across from him. Dean blinks, but the blonde doesn’t disappear. Huh. He takes a better look at her. She has a pair of big blue eyes, framed by a really wide set of clear, thinly-framed glasses, and her hair is like it was a couple of days ago, piled on top of her head; wisps of it have escaped all over, complimenting her oval face, drawing attention to her cheekbones, which he’s pretty sure he could get cut on.  
  
“Whoa,” he says, blinking another time for good measure. “You’re real.”  
  
She smiles a bit. “Since the last time I checked.”  
  
“And you’re not Bobby.”  
  
“He got called out,” the guest tells him, in her stupidly feminine, really nice voice. “Hunt a couple days from here.”  
  
Dean’s head lolls back. “Great. Awesome.”  
  
“Just sit tight,” she says, and then gets up.  
  
She puts the book she’d been reading down on the armchair and disappears into the hall, and then he hears her clattering around in the bathroom. She comes back with a hulking first-aid kid clasped in her hands, and sits down right next to him on the couch. The scent of something fruity and warm washes over him, kind of like orange, kind of like apple. He freakin’ loves girls, man. _Loves them_.  
  
He feels his jacket being poked to the side by a careful hand so she can get a look at the gashes on his torso.  
  
“Angry werewolf?” she asks with a sympathetic lilt.  
  
“ _Dead_ werewolf,” he corrects her.  
  
She opens the first aid kid— _click, creak_ —and digs out a bunch of standard fare: a plastic bag of cotton balls, saline packets, antiseptic cream, gauze, needle and thread, tweezers, scissors, iodine. Everything needed to make life more unpleasant than usual. She slaps on a pair of disposable latex gloves and thoroughly sterilizes the old-as-balls tweezers from the kit.  
  
“Shirt’s a goner,” she announces sadly.  
  
“Wouldn’t be the first.”  
  
“Gotta see if there’s any of it left in the cuts. You wanna drink?”  
  
Dean sighs. “God, yes.”  
  
She gets up again and returns with an entire bottle of Jack. Presses it into his hands. Yeah, he likes her already. He eagerly unscrews the black cap and drinks deep.  
  
“Since I’m gonna be cutting open your shirt,” she says, as she does just that with the small pair of surgical scissors, “I should probably introduce myself. I’m Alice.”  
  
She gathers the tattered pieces of shirt and tosses them to the floor.  
  
He gives her his best megawatt smile. “Dean.”  
  
“One of John Winchester’s boys, right?”  
  
He tries not to wince as she moves the skin around the cuts to take a good look at them. “That’s me. You know my dad?”  
  
“Not me. My aunt. They worked a case together a long time ago. In Delaware. Said he was good, but scary as hell.”  
  
“Yeah, sounds like him.”  
  
“Right, well, there’s a bit of shirt here, so. Bite down on something.”  
  
He takes a long swig from the bottle. “Go for it.”  
  
She grips at the strip of fabric caught in the wound with the tweezers, delicately, and slides the piece free. It leaves a streak of red on his skin. He hisses very lowly between his teeth.  
  
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “That was the biggest one. Everything else can be flushed out, then we can disinfect.”  
  
“Gotcha, doc.”  
  
She smiles a little, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her cute, straight nose, and then goes about drawing saline into a large syringe without a needle. She regards him with those larger-than-life peepers, blue like the sky, and then draws away with a frown.  
  
“I should… probably get some towels,” she amends. “And you should get out of that, if you can.”  
  
He’s just managed to shrug off the leather jacket when she comes back with the promised towels. She places them strategically around him, tucking one under his side and the other near the waistband of his jeans to catch any runoff. With clinical, methodical efficiency, she opens up another pack of sterile gauze, and picks the syringe up in the other hand. She goes for the biggest gash first, the one in the middle: when she depresses the plunger and the saline comes washing out, grit, dirt, and whatever blood hadn't dried seeps from the wound in a watery gush.  
  
“Oh,” Dean says, staring at the rapidly-expanding, gross stain on the towel underneath him. “Nice.”  
  
Alice wipes the rest away with the gauze, apologizing again when a lance of pain goes through him.  
  
“Almost done,” she says. “The top and bottom lesions are superficial. One in the center’s the worst, but it doesn’t look like it went all the way down to your hypodermis, so that’s good. Less scarring. If you care about that kinda thing, anyway.”  
  
“S’alright,” Dean assures her. “Chicks dig scars.”  
  
She chuckles. “True enough.”  
  
She works in silence for a couple more moments, making sure the wounds are as clear as they can be, double-checking so that she can be certain there’s nothing left in there. As she crinkles the gauze packets and puts away the saline, she considers him with a thoughtful stare.  
  
“I think I have some gut left over from the last time I was here,” she muses. “Should be just what you need.”  
  
“Sorry, _what_?”  
  
She rifles around in the first aid kid, obviously looking for something. “Type of suture. You won’t need to remove them, they’re absorbable. The wound doesn’t need much support, so you’ll probably be good to go in a week. If that’d gone any deeper, it’d have messed with fascia or muscle, and you’d have needed, you know, an ER. Are you always this lucky?”  
  
His head is reeling from the rapidfire explanation, but he manages a reply anyway. “No, not always. You a nurse or something?”  
  
“Uncle was a paramedic. I nearly became one. Ended up being a good thing.”  
  
Dean blinks dazedly. “Yeah, I can imagine.”  
  
“It’s pretty useful in this line of work,” she agrees, while she pops a suturing needle out of its blister, straightening the thread with her hand. “Wish I had forceps, but I’ll make do.”  
  
“This is a hell of a lot more advanced than what usually happens,” he confesses. “I mostly just superglue these kinds of suckers shut and call it a day.”  
  
“I’m aware,” Alice says dryly. “Bobby’s the same way. I bring him proper supplies, when I can. You guys shouldn’t be using whiskey as disinfectant for deep wounds. Does more harm than good. Way too harsh.”  
  
He grins at her. “Hasn’t killed me yet.”  
  
“ _Great_ endorsement,” she drawls, drawing closer. “Hold as still as you can. Don’t wanna poke anything important.”  
  
He takes a fortifying gulp of Jack before settling in for good, relaxing every muscle as much as he can. He knows from experience that this will hurt a hell of a lot more if he’s wound up tighter than a coiled spring. Loosening up still doesn’t come close to erasing the stick and the awful burn of the needle on the way in the first time, but he’s had worse. There’s always something worse.  
  
“So,” he starts through gritted teeth, “how is it you know Bobby?”  
  
She doesn’t look up from her work, doesn’t even blink. Her hands remain rock-steady as she draws the needle through his skin again, placing another suture. He can feel the warmth of her through the gloves.  
  
“He helped me out,” she says shortly. “It was some years back. And then we just stayed in touch. Or, um, _I_ stayed in touch. He couldn’t get rid of me. Says I’m—”  
  
“—like gum stuck to a boot,” they say in unison.  
  
“Yeah,” Alice laughs, grinning wide. Oh, shit, she has _dimples_. “So I come by, now and then. Make sure he hasn’t forgotten to eat. And to wash out that terrifying thing he calls a coffee machine.”  
  
Dean bites his lip at the next pass of the needle. No sound escapes him, because he’s that hardcore. “He never mentioned you.”  
  
“Not surprised,” she says. “Bobby’s not real talkative. Big on privacy. Which I gotta admit, is kinda sweet. I’m grateful for it.”  
  
He clears his throat. “Yeah, other hunters can be a lil’...”  
  
“Nosy? Intrusive? Pushy?”  
  
He huffs out a laugh. “Well, Alice, why don’t you tell us how you _really_ feel?”  
  
She smiles bashfully. “It isn’t that bad. I just like my space. I also like not being interrogated.”  
  
“Depends on the circumstances, I guess,” he says, biting off the end of that sentence abruptly when she starts on what’s going to be the fifth suture. “Anything can be fun if it’s done right.”  
  
Alice smirks. “Even getting filetted by a werewolf?”  
  
“Hey, I _won_. And yeah, even that.”  
  
“Well, there’s fun all over you,” she remarks, casting an eye up at the rest of him. She ties off the last of the tiny knots, giving it an experimental wiggle. “And seven sutures to fix a part of it.”  
  
Dean chances a look at the cut, and his eyebrows climb upward to his hairline. The ugly, open sides of the gash have been pressed shut, like it never happened in the first place. The dotted, tiny knots keeping it closed look like they were tied by a machine.  
  
“Whoa,” he breathes. “That’s… neat.”  
  
She puts the needle away, folding it into a square of gauze, and reaches for the cotton balls instead. “Thanks. Now, let’s get a look at your face. You hurt anywhere else?”  
  
“Uh… head, I think. I definitely hit it. Dunno if it’s bleeding, though.”  
  
Alice gestures to him with a palm, close enough to touch, but stopping just short. “May I?”  
  
He smiles. “Anyone who looks like you? Don’t gotta ask.”  
  
“Cute,” she says offhandedly, before gripping his chin and turning his face this way and that for inspection. Her fingers brush over his scalp and forehead. “Well, you’ve got a lump. You been vomiting, seeing double, experiencing vertigo, any combination of the above?”  
  
“Nah. Dizzy, but that’s bloodloss. I’m not concussed, doc.”  
  
“Not a doctor,” she reminds him. “Okay. Seems alright. Keep a lookout for any of those symptoms, though. Let’s clean these little scrapes and then finish up the wound dressing.”  
  
She does exactly as she said she would—first she meticulously cares for the scrape on his forehead, the cut on his cheek, and the various splits on his knuckles. Then she slathers a generous amount of antibiotic cream on the stitched wound, and seals it with an adhesive patch.  
  
Dean frowns. “Is it supposed to be so… moist?”  
  
She actually bursts out laughing at that. “Yeah, it, uh—it really helps speed up the healing process. Change that dressing once every twelve hours, and apply this cream each time.” She pushes the tube of it into his hand. “You can shower tomorrow, like normal, but don’t use soap or shampoo near the wound.”  
  
“Fancy. Real fancy.”  
  
Alice chuckles. “No, this is pretty basic.”  
  
She peels off the gloves and dumps them in the pile of used supplies.  
  
“Thanks,” Dean says, earnestly. “Really, I—I appreciate it.”  
  
“No problem. Hunters should have a better standard of medical care, anyway.”  
  
He makes a noise somewhere between a disbelieving grunt and a snorting laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.”  
  
“I’ve just decided I’ll just fix up who I can, when I can,” she says, packing away the first aid kit. “Best I can do.”  
  
Dean sits up carefully, making sure he doesn’t strain his new stitches too much, and then pushes himself to his feet.  
  
“Well, your best’s pretty great, gotta admit,” he mutters, looking down at himself.  
  
“It would have sucked pretty bad if Bobby came back and found you in pieces,” Alice says. She gathers the waste for the trashbin in one hand, and holds the first aid kit with the other. “He’d throw a fit about the mess.”  
  
Dean casts a knowing glance around the familiar living room. “He should look at this place first before talking about a mess.”  
  
He hears her laugh from the hallway. “As if any room or house of yours would be any better!”  
  
That almost offends him. “Hey, you don’t know me.”  
  
She comes back into the room and crosses over into the kitchen, disposing of the bag in the garbage can under the sink.  
  
“No, but I know hunters,” Alice says as she turns around. She blows a wisp of hair out of her face with a puff of well-timed breath.  
  
“Still, you dunno for _sure,_ ” he insists, more out of stubbornness than any other reason. “I could be, like… freaky clean.”  
  
She raises one groomed brow at him. “And _are_ you?”  
  
He holds her gaze for about five seconds.  
  
“...Some days.”  
  
That gets another smile out of her. “I did some laundry yesterday. There are clean shirts and sweatpants in the wardrobe of the guest room.”  
  
He gives her a bewildered stare, but her smile just gets a little toothier.  
  
“You’re swaying in place, Dean,” she says knowingly. “I’m assuming you want to get some rest. D’you need help getting up the stairs?”  
  
This whole _Being Waited On With Nothing Being Expected In Return_ thing is seriously starting to wig him out. He’s going to take the exit offered and not feel bad about it. Maybe he’ll be less easy to bamboozle when he’s caught up on some hours—staying awake long into the night to chase crazed werewolves (for days in a row) doesn’t exactly do the brain any favors.  
  
“I’m good,” he says, very gingerly reaching for the jacket that’s laid on the couch. “I’ll just take it slow.”  
  
She picks up the book she’d abandoned when he’d barged in and gets back into the armchair, crossing her legs. Her rather long, nicely-accentuated-by-jeans legs. “Yep, wouldn’t wanna tear your stitches. Sleep well.”  
  
He shakes his head some, in an effort to clear it.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, for what seems like the tenth time in as many minutes. “Have… fun?”  
  
Is that what you say to someone who’s voluntarily reading a book? Do people do that?  
  
Alice only smiles. She does that a lot. “Thanks, I will. Holler if you need anything.”  
  
He nods before walking away.  
  
Dean is wondering at the strangeness of it all as he ascends the stairs.  
  
He thinks about the dimples, the questions, and the precious, tranquil trust she’d shown him. He thinks about how she was the first person in years to wish him a good rest. He thinks about her when he falls face-first into the guest bed, landing on his good side. And he’s still thinking about her when he falls asleep, dressed in fresh clothes, the closest he’s been to feeling safe in a long, long time.


	3. INTERLUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \o/

__

 

***

**LUCKY SPRINGS MOTEL**

**NORTH PLATTE, NEBRASKA**

**1999**

***

  
  


The second time she meets Dean Winchester, it's months later, and it’s just as random as the first.  
  
She has a hard time sleeping when she’s hunting ghosts, so the only things keeping her functional are copious amounts of stubbornness and inhuman faith in the fact that she can make it to her room before totally collapsing.  
  
The vending machine, however, is calling her name—she’ll regret not getting a snack when she wakes up, she knows it. She musters her remaining strength long enough to buy some chocolate bars, a bag of chips, and a bottle of water. Autopilot takes over. She stuffs her loot into her pack, only holding onto the soda. She’s going to need it to wash down whatever she manages to eat. If she manages to eat.  
  
God, screw ghost hunts. Why does she even accept them, anyway?  
  
And just when she’s about to answer her own question, she runs headlong into another person. As in, full-on headbutt, cranium to the chest, bone-on-bone action, complete with a grunt of of surprise and an immediate gathering of tension. Hot hands clasp around her upper arms, holding her steady.  
  
“Whoa, hey,” says a gravelly voice. She smells leather and tangy aftershave. Senses a ripple of genuine concern.  
  
“Crap, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going, did I—”  
  
“Alice?”  
  
She reels back, squinting into the dim light. Features she’s seen before slowly reveal themselves to her—green eyes, a couple of freckles, a nose that’s a little too small for his face, and a head of cropped, brown-blonde hair.  
  
“Dean,” she blurts, totally taken aback. “Uh. Hi?”  
  
He steps into the tiny pool of pale light given off by the vending machine, drawing her with him. His expression sobers as he looks down at her.  
  
“Wow. You look, uh…”  
  
“Like shit?” she rasps, chuckling a bit when his eyebrows shoot up in shock. “Yeah. Not a fan of ghosts.”  
  
Those eyebrows come rocketing back down, transforming his face into something stern and almost protective.  
  
“That’s why you’re out here?” he asks. “The haunting in the old Hastings house?”  
  
She nods. “The very same. Caught wind of ‘mysterious deaths’ in a local gazette, so… here I am.”  
  
He gives her a look she’s not sure how to interpret; it makes her bristle, just a little, because this guy barely knows her, and he’s acting like her designated minder. He’s pretty, sure—but that doesn’t mean she’s gotta listen, or that it’s going to lessen the building indignation.  
  
“Whatever it is, please save it,” she says primly, pointing at him with the head of the soda bottle. “I can handle myself just fine, despite the mile-long eyebags.”  
  
He purses his lips, like a surly toddler. “I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“You didn’t _have_ to,” Alice observes. She focuses on him more, hones in on what’s coming off of him in waves—uncertainty, brewing resistance, and curiosity. “If you’re really worried, you’re free to come with when I case the house tomorrow. I won’t turn down the help.”  
  
The cocktail of emotions melts away into gentle surprise. Dean scoffs incredulously. “What, just like that?”  
  
“If you’re good enough for Bobby, you’re good enough for me,” she declares.  
  
He gives her what she’s coming to recognize as his trademark smirk. “I thought other hunters were… what was it? Oh—nosy. Intrusive. Pushy.”  
  
“Then this is your chance to prove me wrong,” Alice says, cool as a cucumber. “Don’t make me regret offering, Winchester. I usually fly solo.”  
  
He shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized leather jacket. “Hunting with backup ain’t so bad. Makes it a group activity.”  
  
“That’s exactly why I avoid it,” she murmurs. “Other people throw the signals off.”  
  
Dean frowns at her. “They what?”  
  
“Never mind,” she amends quickly. She really _is_ sleepy—she’s slipping up, and to a practical stranger. “I’ve just got a routine down. Creature of habit.”  
  
His suspicion, very subtle, very sharp, pricks at her mind. He’s gonna remember this. Just great.  
  
“So why offer at all?” Dean inquires, looking at her with hooded eyes.  
  
She looks right back, gripping her soda tight for courage. “Because I have this feeling you’re gonna do whatever the hell you want anyway.”  
  
He remains quiet for a bit before his face breaks into a shit-eating grin. “Damn straight.”  
  
“I’m assuming you’re staying here?”  
  
“Yeah, 305.”  
  
“Cool, I’m in 210. See you in the morning, then. G’night.”  
  
She walks off in the direction of her room fast enough to cut off any other potential questions or long, meaningful, searching looks. She’s not sure she’d be able to fend him off if he started digging into her answers earnestly, which is probably why she threw him the partnership bone. Anything to stall the inevitable sidelong glances, the slow realization that she’s too perceptive, too quick on the uptake. She just needs to hold on until tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow, her walls will be up again. Tomorrow, it’ll be fine. Tomorrow, she’ll torch a ghost and move on.

  
  


***

  
  


The December day that dawns next morning is crazy cold.  
  
She wakes up shivering underneath the thin motel blankets. Her sleep had been about as restful as expected—short bursts of it punctuated by horrible dreams, horrible memories. She’s still mostly frozen and unconscious as she shoves herself into her choice of clothes: jeans, socks, boots, an undershirt, a thick sweater, a jacket. It all goes on mechanically, piece by piece, until she’s standing by the door, fully-dressed, making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.  
  
Five minutes later, she’s locked up and grabbed some cocoa from the bakery down the street. It doesn’t taste great since it’s made with water, but it’s hot, and the whorl of whipped cream on top isn’t half bad, either.  
  
Dean Winchester is in the motel parking lot when she gets back, leaned against the trunk of an incredibly shiny, black, classic car, nursing a styrofoam cup of what smells like coffee. He acknowledges her with a nod. He looks just the way he did yesterday—brown leather jacket with a popped collar, dark-wash jeans, the amulet around his neck glinting in the scant morning light. He does not seem happy.  
  
“How are you awake?” he grouses once she’s within earshot.  
  
“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Alice says. “Not really a morning person, I take it.”  
  
He takes a huge gulp of his coffee, grimacing. “Oh, no, no, no. This?” He points a finger up at the grey sky, the barely-there sun. “This is not _morning_. It’s… whatever comes before morning but after the ass-crack of dawn.”  
  
“It’s, like, six thirty,” she says, cupping her hands around her drink. “Don’t be a baby. _You_ wanted to come along, remember? How did you even know I was awake?”  
  
He gives her a blank look. “No other person in this entire motel would be banging around at _six thirty_.”  
  
Alice snorts. “You say that like you know me.”  
  
“Pft, please. I can smell a health nut a mile away. You’ve got yoga and smoothies written all over you, doc.”  
  
“Not a doctor,” she rattles off before she can stop herself. “And yoga’s great for improving flexibility.”  
  
He flashes her that charming smile. “Believe me, I know. Maybe you could give me a refresher course. Y’know, later.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles into her cup. “Sure. Bobby’s warned me about you. Your reputation precedes you, Dean Winchester.”  
  
He chuckles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
  
“But, Dean… you’ll have to bark up another tree,” Alice says, feeling a familiar sting in her chest. “I’m saying it for your own good. I, uh—tend to be bad luck.”  
  
She senses his surprise, like a flutter of gossamer wings, before she sees it on his face.  
  
“Okay, I’ll admit—I’ve never heard that one before,” Dean tells her. “Bad luck? Isn’t that usually the guy’s line?”  
  
She stares down at her cup, maybe just a tad despondent. She wishes she had the luxury of blowing off steam. Or getting attached, even temporarily. That’d be nice. But it’s too much of a risk.  
  
“I know, it sounds stupid,” she murmurs. “Just… trust me on this one. Please. You’ll be dodging a bullet.”  
  
He stares at her steadily after that statement, his green eyes suddenly very aware and awake, like he can see and understand every rotten reason she can’t explain aloud. Understanding blossoms from him, some kind of sympathy. She feels it as keenly as the cold, and it makes her heart squeeze in on itself.  
  
“Okay,” he says, softer than before. “You don’t gotta worry about it.”  
  
The unexpectedly considerate reply makes her eyes swim with heat. “Thanks. Thank you,” she whispers, pretending like her cocoa is the most engaging thing in the universe.  
  
He clears his throat, turning away a little. A faint, shimmery hint of embarrassment drifts from him. “You, uh, drive here in that beat up lil’ Capri?”  
  
“Yep,” she says, latching onto the subject change with everything she’s got. “A Bobby Singer original. I didn’t die, so…”  
  
“Awesome standard,” Dean laughs, crushing his now-empty coffee cup. “It looks like it’d fall apart on startup.”  
  
She looks over to the car a couple of spots over, a squat grey fastback that has definitely seen better days—the coating of road dust on it is pretty generous, but it’s reliable enough, as far as Alice is concerned, and super unassuming. It suits her purposes perfectly.  
  
“Well, as long as I can get from A to B without exploding, I’m good,” she says, taking another drink of her cocoa. She’s almost done.  
  
Dean raises a brow at her. “Like I said, awesome standard. But since I’m really not big on the whole— _exploding_ thing—we’ll be taking Baby to the house.”  
  
“Baby?”  
  
Dean pats the car under him lovingly. “This here’s Baby. She’s the apple to my pie. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”  
  
“Not much of a car person, but I can tell she’s taken care of real well,” Alice compliments. “Looks brand new.”  
  
He puffs his chest out like a proud peacock, clearly pleased by the comment. “Do all the work on her myself. You about ready?”  
  
Alice nods. “I’m just gonna go throw this away, and then we can get going.”  
  
“Sounds good,” he says, pushing himself off the trunk and making for the car door on the driver’s side. “Let’s blast us a baddie.”  
  
She gets into the Impala for the first time just moments later, red-cheeked from the chill, having no idea how often she’ll be doing this in the years to come.  
  
Or how sometimes she’ll wish, more than anything, that she’d never agreed to this starter hunt with Dean Winchester at her side.


	4. LIFEBOAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[mysterious music intensifies]_

***

**SINGER RESIDENCE**

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA**

**2000**

***

  
  


The rest of the year passes for Dean in relative ease.  
  
By that, he means there’s less bloodshed and sleeplessness than usual. Life is still rough, full of impermanence and death, which is pretty much the _only_ permanent thing about a hunter’s existence. There are some weeks, like this one, where work’s slow, and he and Sam have some time to themselves. Dad’s gone, chasing some leads he won't talk about in Colorado, so it’s actually quiet for once—he and Sam have been going at it _nonstop_ these days, over literally everything imaginable. Choice of hunt? Cause for war. Sam gets his shirt on inside out? A felony. They’ve fallen into a routine: Dad makes a remark, Sam returns it, or vice versa, and more often than not, it all goes to hell quicker than you can say ‘pecan pie.’  
  
So, does Dean enjoy being parked at Bobby’s like a teenager? No, not really. But is he enjoying the break from the constant yelling, the glaring competitions, and the motormouth, smartass commentary? Yes. God, yes, he is _so_ enjoying it, enough that it’s actually kinda scaring him.  
  
Sam is inside, on the couch, eyeballs-deep in some textbook or whatever, Bobby’s answering his phones while leafing through a file as thick as Dean’s arm, and Dean himself? Nursing a wonderful, cold beer on the porch, legs kicked up on the railing.  
  
Or, rather, he is… until a grey ‘70 Ford Capri comes squealing into the front yard, nearly totaling Baby in the process.  
  
He jumps from his seat, instinctively trying to avoid the car hurtling toward him. It stops way too close to the porch for his liking, brakes screeching discordantly. Beer leaps up the neck of its bottle, splashes at his feet, on the knees of his jeans, and splatters onto the porch.  
  
“Whoa!” Dean’s exclaiming as the door of the Capri swings open. “Take it easy there, Mario Andretti, okay? Living person here!”  
  
The Capri’s stuttering engine dies, and a bedraggled Alice stumbles out. He immediately stills at the sight of her, tense shoulders going slack. Her ashen face is streaked with dirt, and blood is oozing down her forehead. He sees the large patch of scarlet blooming on her shirt only when she staggers forward, her heels digging into the soft dirt.  
  
“Dean,” she says, just one word, enough to put him on the highest alert. “Help…”  
  
He’s already abandoned his beer and leapt off the porch by the time she’s crumbled to her knees.  
  
He skids to a stop beside her, crouching down to her level.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey. Alice? Alice, can you hear me?”  
  
She mumbles some kind of an affirmative, head lolling. Her glasses are broken in one place, cracks spidering out over a lens from its corner. He feels a jolt of unease when he realizes how pale her lips are, thin and pressed together in pain.  
  
“What the hell happened?”  
  
She lets out a shuddering sigh. “Pressure,” she whispers. “Need—pressure.”  
  
“Where?” Dean asks, tapping her cheek when her eyes droop shut. “Alice, where?”  
  
“Left… down. My—side.”  
  
His hand moves past her jacket, pressing against the red mess there. The shirt squelches under his palm.  
  
“Didn’t have time,” she says weakly. “To stop the bleeding. Couldn’t slow down. Had to—make sure I wasn’t being… followed.”  
  
“You can’t walk,” he tells her, and then leans in, even though her eyes widen in trepidation. “Hold on.”  
  
“Dean, no—”  
  
He hoists her up with little-to-no effort, a little alarmed at how fine-boned she is; he honestly expected her to weigh more, given that she’s mostly lean muscle, so that just means she’s smaller than he originally thought. Kind of weird, but not something to be dwelling on right now. He leaves the unlocked Capri behind without a care, ascending the porch and kicking at Bobby’s door in lieu of a knock.  
  
“A little help, guys!” Dean hollers.  
  
Alice just shivers and tucks her cold nose into the crook of his neck. He holds her tighter.  
  
“What is goin’ on out here?” Bobby’s voice thunders out from behind the door.  
  
“She’s hurt,” Dean says as soon as the door opens, and he walks straight past a shocked Bobby and into the living room.  
  
He sets Alice on the couch as carefully as he can, backing away with a lot of reluctance.  
  
“What in the hell, girl?” Bobby says as he comes to stand by the them. “How bad is it?”  
  
“Superficial,” Alice groans. “I just—couldn’t stop. I had no time. It was either keep bleeding or _stop driving_.”  
  
“Goddamn it,” Bobby snaps. He stomps away into the hall, no doubt to grab the battered first aid kid.  
  
“This is Alice?” Sam’s soft voice says at Dean’s left, and he darn near jumps out of his skin. He’d forgotten Sam was even here.  
  
“Yeah, that’s her,” he mutters back, not taking his eyes off the girl on the couch.  
  
Bobby comes back a second later, hands full of equipment. He gets to work immediately, disinfecting his hands, drawing up Alice’s shirt and assessing what lies underneath.  
  
“You get stabbed?” Bobby asks, pressing a wad of packed gauze against the wound.  
  
“Steel dagger,” Alice says. Her face contorts in pain, eyes squeezing shut. “Didn’t hit anything… important. Glanced off my rib. Don’t need a hospital, promise.”  
  
A heavy silence settles while they wait for the trickling bleeding to stop. Dean feels pretty useless just standing there like a chump, with Sam watching silently over his shoulder, but there’s not much to do. Bobby looks like he’d snap the head off of anyone who came too close, so _that’s_ out of the question.  
  
“This has gotta stop,” Bobby grunts. “One day you won’t be able to give him the slip.”  
  
 _Him?_  
  
Alice looks at Bobby with something like panic in her expression. “ _Bobby_ ,” she says, pleadingly. “Not now. Please.”  
  
Dean feels a prickle of curiosity. Somehow, he manages to hold his tongue anyway.  
  
“You ‘n I,” Bobby mutters angrily, “are gonna have words when you’re better. Y’hear me? _Words_.”  
  
Alice’s face crumples. “I hear you.”  
  
Silence again.  
  
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Bobby says after a long pause. “You’re not bleeding anymore. You sure about skipping on the hospital?”  
  
“Positive,” Alice assures him. “I’m just woozy. Need—rest. And lots of liquids. Um, and, probably some staples. Or stitches. You’re gonna—have to do it, though.”  
  
Bobby sighs. “Nothing I ain’t done before. Won’t be all nice-like, like yours, but…”  
  
“Gets the job done,” Alice says, smiling a little.  
  
“Sure. Sure does.”  
  
Another pause, the third of them. This time, at the end of it, Bobby turns around, holding bloody gauze with an equally bloody hand.  
  
“You got nothin’ better to do than to stare?” he inquires gruffly, giving them A Look.  
  
Sam starts and shuffles away, like he’s been caught doing something untoward. Dean just shrugs, directing his gaze to Alice.  
  
She’s keeping her eyes downcast, but reaches up with a shaking hand to pull off her ruined glasses.  
  
“This blows,” she says softly.  
  
Dean has to agree.

  
  


***

  
  


Hours later, Alice is still asleep, bundled up on the couch under a bunch of old fluffy blankets.  
  
Some color’s come back to her face, and Bobby had her replace her screwed-up clothes and wipe the dirt off her cheeks with a damp towel before she really conked out. She’d taken the stitches without complaint, staring stony-eyed at the ceiling, jaw locked in place. And she hadn’t talked, almost at all, just gazed into nothing until she’d dozed off.  
  
Sam’s back to reading, curled up on the armchair, and Dean’s doing gun maintenance at the table. Bobby went to bed an hour ago, citing “a long-ass day” as the reason. Dean can’t say he blames him.  
  
He barely notices Alice coming around.  
  
“Proust?” her voice asks, making Sam startle. “Good taste.”  
  
“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” Sam says, lowering his book. “Hi. Uh, thanks.”  
  
She doesn’t seem perturbed by his shock at all. “So. _In Search Of Lost Time._ D’you like it so far?”  
  
Sam blinks, once, twice, like he can’t believe he’s being asked that. “I—yeah. It… makes me think.”  
  
“First volume is my favorite,” Alice goes on. “Read it back in high school.”  
  
“Do you need anything? Water? You hungry?” Sam says, in typical Nurse Sam fashion. “We’ve got painkillers.”  
  
“In a bit,” Alice murmurs. “I’m gonna just… stay very still for now. You’re Sam, right?”  
  
“Uh—yeah. That’s me. Sam Winchester.”  
  
“Alice Montgomery,” she replies, and Dean realizes that’s the first time he’s ever heard her surname. It suits her, if surnames can suit a person. “Sorry for nearly running over your brother.”  
  
Sam laughs, bashful and amused simultaneously. “It’s fine. He’s got a hard head, anyway. He’dve been okay.”  
  
“ _Hello_ ,” Dean says pointedly, at last, jamming a cleaning rag down a revolver’s barrel maybe a little too hard. “Right here.”  
  
“Hi, Dean,” Alice greets him. “I didn’t bleed on you, did I?”  
  
“Nah. Besides, I’ve gotten much worse than blood on me, sweetheart.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Thanks for hauling my ass in, anyhow. Should’ve known I couldn’t make it.”  
  
“Sounded like you were getting chased,” Dean remarks offhandedly.  
  
She immediately closes off, going cold. Sam shoots Dean a warning glance—not even two minutes into their acquaintance, and Sam’s getting all defensive and chivalrous. What a geek.  
  
“Maybe,” Alice grits out, voice stiff. “I don’t really wanna talk about it. No offense.”  
  
Dean looks at her for a long moment, and then shrugs, going back to piecing the revolver together. “None taken.”  
  
“How long have I been out?” Alice says. Her expression is less guarded, but her tone isn’t.  
  
“Couple of hours,” Dean answers. “Not long. Bobby’s gone to bed, though, so… you’re home free.”  
  
Alice winces. “Until the morning, yeah. I should enjoy the quiet while I can.”  
  
“Sucks to be you,” Dean says, and Sam gives him a glare that clearly states he’d throw his book at Dean if they didn’t have company.  
  
But Alice just sighs and shuts her eyes. “Sure does. I think I’m gonna—take another nap. For a bit. Night, boys…”  
  
Minutes after declaring hat, she’s drifted off and is back to breathing gently, evenly, her chest rising and falling in the cadence of restful sleep.  
  
“So,” Sam murmurs. “She’s the one you’re… worried about?”  
  
“Yep,” Dean says shortly. “The one and only.”  
  
“She doesn’t seem that different from other hunters. Kinda nice, actually,” Sam continues, in a low voice, his hazel eyes trained on Alice. “Dunno. You got a reason for—believing otherwise?”  
  
Dean shrugs again, his hands coming to a stop.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Just a hunch,” he says, feeling that prickling between his shoulders.  
  
He’s taken back to the night they talked outside that motel in Nebraska, the shriek of his instincts urging him that there was more to the situation—to her reactions—than he could tell. Dean Winchester knows when he’s onto something.  
  
Time will prove him right.


	5. SAFE HARBOR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> missouri was a character that was criminally underutilized and i totally decided certain things about alice's character just to give missouri more screentime

***

**MISSOURI’S SHOP**

**LAWRENCE, KANSAS**

**2001**

***

  


It’s always weird coming back here, driving through the streets of the city that she spent most of her childhood in.  
  
Nothing’s changed, but she has. In fact, she’s changed so much that she feels like a literal stranger here—which she supposes she is, truth be told. When she left Lawrence, all those years ago, she hadn't given up on any friends or family. There’d been none of that outside of the shelter of her home. She hadn’t even been a hunter then, just a clueless, perceptive kid. Still alone, though. That’s one thing that isn’t different. She knows herself better now—well enough that she realizes she could have never escaped this life, not by a longshot. It’d have drawn her back in, no matter where she’d gone, or what she did.  
  
She’d tried. College had been nice. Training had been better. It’d been… good, using her talents to save people without involving guns, or knives, or sigils and rituals. And because it’d been good, it hadn’t lasted. Nothing like that ever does, for hunters.  
  
She pulls over on the sidewalk by the shop. It’s just past six, which means visiting hours for customers are over—it should be okay to approach. Alice exits the car, locks up, and makes her way to the door, feeling very tiny and trepidatious the entire time.  
  
Predictably enough, it swings open right as she comes to the doorstep.  
  
Missouri Moseley is standing in the entrance, a smile already on her face; she’s in a comfortable sweater and linen trouser ensemble, topped off with a matching khaki-colored scarf. Her coiled hair is tied back by a beautifully patterned headband with green detailing. She’s the first friendly face Alice has seen in months. The first familiar, safe face. And because she’s Missouri, she knows exactly what Alice is thinking as she thinks it; her expression creases sympathetically as soon as she reads Alice’s thoughts, and her arms open up in the offer of an embrace.  
  
Alice moves in without a word, letting Missouri envelop her in a warm, welcoming hug. The psychic smells like incense and a tinge of something powdery and sweet. The scent alone makes Alice’s eyes water. Her glasses are being crushed against her nose and eyes, but she doesn’t care.  
  
_I suck, I suck, I screwed up so bad, I’m so stupid, I deserve to get caught_ —  
  
“Oh, honey,” Missouri murmurs, her arms tightening around Alice. “Don’t you go tearin’ yourself up over this. Come on in. I was just about to put a kettle on for myself.”  
  
Alice sniffles as she pulls away, wiping at her wet cheeks with the edge of her jacket sleeve. She follows Missouri inside and closes the door behind her, drawing a deep breath.  
  
“Sorry for not giving you earlier notice,” Alice says, trailing after Missouri like a lost dog. “I’d finished up my case, was just a couple of hours out, and…”  
  
“Don’t you worry about it,” Missouri cuts her off. “I told you that my door’s always open, Alice, and I meant it.”  
  
Missouri’s kitchen is homier than the professional-yet-cozy vibe she has going on in the waiting and receiving rooms; there are colorful mugs hanging from their handles over the central island counter, bundles of dried herbs alongside them—Alice can identify most of them by sight. She takes a seat at the kitchen table while Missouri bustles at the stove, preparing a cup of tea.  
  
She already feels calmer. The runoff is always better at Missouri’s, who’s aware of the ebb and flow of empathic energies far more than the average person. Even Missouri herself is steady, like a rock in a storm, not erratic and unavoidable like most humans. There’s a serenity about her, a certainty, something that makes Alice feel like she can say what she truly thinks—a precious, rare commodity in her life. She has no idea where she’d have ended up without Missouri to guide her through the turbulence of coming to terms with her talents. Maybe in a ditch—and before she’d even become legal, probably.  
  
“I just held your hand, honey,” Missouri says as she spoons tea leaves into a strainer. “You were the one that figured it all out.”  
  
Alice smiles. “Well, you helped. A lot. And I’m grateful.”  
  
The scent of black tea fills the kitchen as Missouri pours boiling water over the strainer, letting it seep into her mug of choice.  
  
“You can do better than grateful,” Missouri says, turning around to fix her with a knowing look. “You can stop playin’ with fire. You’re gonna get burned, Alice. I don’t want to see you hurt.”  
  
Alice’s head hangs, her wispy fringe brushing at the polished surface of the kitchen table. “I know. I know I am. I need to—find the courage to face him.”  
  
There’s silence except for the clink of metal on ceramic, the rasping whisper of granulated sugar being spooned into tea. Missouri takes a seat opposite Alice, one hand holding a steaming mug, the other coming to rest over Alice’s clasped palms.  
  
“You _have_ the courage, Alice,” Missouri says in a quiet voice. “You just don’t want to lose him. You’re afraid, honey.”  
  
She struggles with the tsunami of sentiment that statement causes, biting down stubbornly on her trembling lower lip. “For an empath, I kinda suck at sorting out my own baggage, huh?” she mutters.  
  
Missouri laughs softly. “Ain’t just you, darlin’. Nobody’s that impartial when it comes to themselves. That’s what friends are for. And psychics.”  
  
“I guess,” Alice says with an answering smile. “I’ve been running for so long. I… don’t think I know how to stop.”  
  
Missouri’s assurance washes over her like the warmth of a heater.  
  
“You listen to me, Alice Montgomery,” the psychic begins, her hand squeezing Alice’s. “You’re one of the most resilient people I know. It will come to you. One day soon, you’re going to turn around and hold your ground. And you’re gonna win.”  
  
“Okay,” Alice says in a watery voice, not really able to respond in any other way in the face of such faith. “Okay. Thank you. Really. Just… thank you.”  
  
“Anytime.” Missouri looks down at their joined hands, her brow furrowing. “You’ve been hunting a lot of ghosts, lately.”  
  
Alice sighs. “Unfortunately. It’s— _not_ what I would do, so I figured—”  
  
“That would throw him off,” Missouri finishes for her. “Change up your patterns.”  
  
“Exactly,” Alice confirms glumly. “But he’ll catch on sooner or later. He always does.”  
  
Missouri is silent for a moment; her sadness and concern are like the touch of cool water, soothing and smooth. “You seen him lately?”  
  
Alice shakes her head. “Not since the stabbing thing last year. I’ve been laying low. No creeping around my usual haunts, no working with others. Sleeping in the car. The whole nine yards.”  
  
“There might be safety in numbers,” Missouri says.  
  
“Most hunters want to hunt _me_ after they find out,” Alice mumbles. “And none of the guys I’ve worked with know about my… um—skills. Except Bobby, but I don’t wanna put this on him.”  
  
Another wave of sadness, this time tinged with empathy and understanding. “I’ve known a lot like that,” Missouri admits. “People are suspicious. Frightened of what they can’t explain. I wish it were different—I wish a whole lot were.”  
  
Alice nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s just—you never know how someone’s going to react. Ever. Even if you think you do…” Her throat knots up. “Uh, Bobby gave me some contacts, long time ago. A hunter bar in Nebraska. I’ve dropped in a couple of times, introduced myself, but nothing other than that. Too scared.”  
  
“Trust isn’t easy,” Missouri agrees, patting Alice’s knuckles. “Especially for women like us. It’s a risk. Like I said—it’ll come to you, honey. And even if it don’t, I’ll always be here.”  
  
Alice turns her hand palm up, clasping Missouri’s fingers with hers. “What would I do without you, Missouri?”  
  
“You’d be just fine,” Missouri says. “I know you would be.”  
  
Alice laughs while Missouri takes a sip of her tea, sending Alice a knowing glance over the top of the mug. “That’s a blatant lie, but alright.”  
  
“You had a bite to eat yet?” Missouri asks, making Alice blink perplexedly at the whiplash change in subject.  
  
“No, actually,” Alice answers. “Been driving all day.”  
  
“How does leftover lasagna sound?”  
  
Alice lets out a long breath at the thought of food—her stomach is suddenly a bottomless, ravenous pit. “Like heaven, honestly.”  
  
“Great. You’re invited to dinner.”  
  
“I think I can free up some time for that in my jam-packed schedule,” Alice says, chuckling.  
  
“Good!” Missouri exclaims, patting Alice’s hand one last time. “Because I wasn’t gonna take no for an answer.”


	6. INQUISITION

***

**ROCKFLOWER MOTEL, OUTDOOR CAFE**

**OAK CREEK, ARIZONA**

**2001**

***

  


“Whoa,” is the first word out of Dean’s mouth when he sees her. “You got tan.”  
   
The orange soda she was sipping on goes straight down her airways, filling her nose and trachea with the nothing but burny little bubbles for days. Alice chokes, slamming her bottle down on the table, distantly listening to Dean panic over her apparent impending death.  
   
Half a minute later, when she’s finally coughed out the last of the carbonation, she turns in her chair to look at Winchester. She shouldn’t have been so shocked at the sound of his voice; the guy’s following her around like a bad rash, year-long breaks notwithstanding.  
   
He’s gotten tan himself—and in the Arizona summer heat, the leather jacket he’s always got with him in is absent. She’s got a perfect view of the clean line of his shoulders and arms; he’s still wearing that amulet, an oddly-shaped, silver thing hanging from a thong of leather. She wonders what it means to him. Hunters don’t own many things—they’re fiercely sentimental and protective of what they _do_ own. And she’s never seen him without it.  
   
“You trying to kill me?” she bites out, keeping her voice down. Enough of the customers turned around when she nearly died by choking on her own throat.  
   
“Not intentionally,” Dean says. He ducks into the shadow of her table’s umbrella. Then, he yanks out the other chair at her table and sits himself down easily, kicking his feet out. Doesn’t even ask for permission. Dick. “We gotta stop meeting like this, doc.”  
   
“I’m _not_ a—” She cuts herself off, hands curling into fists. She counts to ten, real quick, inside her head, and takes a calming breath. “Sure. Okay. I’ll take not meeting at all, if you can swing it.”  
   
He raises a brow at her, assessing her with an observant gaze. In the bright daylight, his eyes look lighter than ever—almost colorless, their pupils tiny dark pinpricks. He plays himself off as an idiot, this one, but he’s far more perceptive than he lets on. She doesn’t need to be an empath to pick up on that much. But his brand of suspicion—sharp, skittering little needles, running over her skin—is present again, so no matter how relaxed his expression, how easygoing he seems, she won’t fall for it. The curiosity of others unsettles her, because it always does, and always will, but their suspicion? Suspicion _frightens_ her. She’s seen where it leads too many times.  
   
Under his watchful stare, she feels—exposed. She’d love to exchange her shorts and tanktop for a turtleneck and some thick sweatpants, regardless of the weather. Anything, if it’d keep him from studying her like a pinned butterfly exhibit.  
   
“Lookin’ a little jumpy, doc,” Dean remarks with a toothy smile. “Got something on your mind?”  
   
She takes a swig of her soda, thanking God that it’s remained cold. “Just work. As usual.”  
   
“You’re not bleeding,” he says, finishing his far too thorough onceover. “That’s a step up from our last rendezvous, right?”  
   
“I guess,” she says with a shrug. “Bleeding’s kind of par for the course, though.”  
   
“You _look_ better,” Dean affirms. “You, uh, been busy?”  
   
She gazes at him with open wariness. “Dean, you can cut out the pussyfooting. It’s really not your style. You’ve got something to ask me—so ask me.”  
   
A torrent of emotion comes from him, like a song suddenly blasting from a radio at full volume. There’s anticipation, surprise, a little bit of admiration: a cocktail of conflicting flavors she’s not sure she likes. The ripples settle, smoothing into acceptance.  
   
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dean says, sitting up. “What’s your deal?”  
   
“You’ll have to be a little more specific than that.”  
   
His eyes narrow at her. “Something’s up with you. Dunno what. But you’re different.”  
   
“I hear that a lot.”  
   
“Bet you do. Didn’t really notice it the first time, but in Nebraska, and at Bobby’s…”  
   
“Look,” she interjects, gripping her soda bottle tight. “Yes. I have shit going on. What hunter doesn’t? My life’s a horror show. All our lives are. I don’t know you well enough to tell you anything. So let me ask _you_ something. Are you threatening me?”  
   
This time his surprise hits her like a shock of static—muzzy and confused, crowded with billions of skittering particles.  
   
“What?” he says, voice a notch higher. “ _What?_ No. I’m _not_ —I just—I’m curious. When we were hunting that ghost, back in ‘99, you were… I dunno. Really— _attuned_ to the situation.”  
   
She frowns at him. “I’ve got good instincts.”  
   
“Most hunters do,” he acquiesces. “This was more.” He leans forward, clasping his hands and setting his elbows on the table. “There _is_ more, isn’t there?”  
   
Alice holds her ground, wiping her face clean of any sort of obvious emotion. “More? Like what?”  
   
He blinks at her, slow and methodical. “Dunno. You tell me.”  
   
“I think…” she says, raising her bottle for another drink. “You’ve got a pretty active imagination.”  
   
They both know it’s a lie. She knows he knows it’s a lie, too—she can feel it in his frequency, see it in his eyes. He can keep his doubt. It’ll take a lot for her to admit what she can do to a trigger-happy male hunter. That’s never ended well for her before. There’s no reason to believe it would start to do so now.  
   
“Alright,” Dean says at last, his curiosity receding like the tide. “Don’t tell me. You know what they say, doc—the truth will out.”  
   
She raises her brows at him, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Whatever you say, dude.”  
   
He opens his mouth to reply when a voice cuts him off.  
   
“Dean!”  
   
The one who called out is a tall man in dark clothing, standing about twenty or thirty yards away; he must have just exited the motel’s lobby, because she hadn’t spotted him out here at any time beforehand, and she’s been sitting here for the last forty minutes. She sees the resemblance immediately—it’s hidden under deep eyebags and a serious five o’clock shadow that’s growing out of control, but Alice can track the similarities: the set of the jaw, the shape of the brow and lips, the taper of the nose. He and Dean must be related. Definitely a hunter, too, if the worn clothes and duffel he’s holding onto is any indication.

This can’t be anyone other than the infamous John Winchester.  
   
Dean snaps to attention, the casual ease he’d been displaying before disappearing like a mirage.  
   
“Be right there!” he returns over his shoulder, but then he faces Alice again. “Duty calls. See you around, doc.”  
   
She just nods at him, a light tip forward of the head, and watches him go join the forbidding-looking John.  
   
“Hopefully not,” she says into the lip of her soda bottle.  
   
But if she knows anything about how much luck loves screwing her over, this won’t be the end of it.


	7. BREAKING THE DAM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploading this in the right order this time lol
> 
> it's BONDING time, sort of

_ *** _

**SINGER RESIDENCE**

**SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA**

**2002**

***

  
  


Before this point, Alice will recall, she’d had many opportunities to avoid Dean Winchester, and she’d taken them.  
  
In fact, she’d gone out of her way to make sure she had no contact with him beyond what was absolutely necessary, despite being mere acquaintances. Whether that was her sixth sense warning her, or her deep-seated trust issues, she’ll never know. But on a really lovely, sunny day in the middle of June, Alice swings by Bobby’s with some supplies, and feels her stomach drop when she sees a ‘67 Chevy Impala parked out front. She could leave, she tells herself, and just come back later. It could be days before the coast is clear, but it’d be worth it. It really would.  
  
Against her better judgment, she pulls her own car in beside the Impala and kills the engine.  
  
(And after this, there was no going back, but she couldn’t have known that, not then).  
  
She shoulders her reusable shopping bags—laden with wonderful things like disposable gloves, gauze, bottles of saline, and all that—and gets out of the car. She locks up and ascends the porch, opening the screen door and knocking on the one behind that.  
  
Bobby’s face is angry and tense when he opens the door, like he’s expecting to see someone else—the force of his temper and disappointment hits her like a ten-ton freight train, chilling her skin.  
  
“Oh,” Bobby says when he recognizes her. The rage dampens, letting her breathe again. “Hey.”  
  
“Bobby,” she returns, giving him a careful look. “You okay?”  
  
He sighs, a bone-weary, incredibly defeated sound. “No. Not really. Come in. Put those damn bags down before you break your back.”  
  
She follows him through the cluttered living room, the piles of books and haphazard mountains of paperwork, and into the equally congested kitchen. She sets her bags on the counter, turning to face Bobby slowly.  
  
“Just brought the usual,” she says, making sure to use her most soothing tone. “I managed some extra first aid kits, too. You can give them to whoever.”  
  
Bobby pulls off his baseball cap, wiping one palm down his face. “Thanks, Allie. It’s real appreciated.”  
  
She leaves the counter to come to his side, placing a hand carefully over his bunched fist that’s holding the crumpled ball of his cap in a death grip.  
  
“Bobby, hey,” she says softly. “You’re real upset. I can feel it. Is there anything I can do?”  
  
His eyes shine with emotion. “It ain’t your problem.”  
  
She smiles. “When has that ever stopped me before?”  
  
“Don’t mean it’s right,” he reminds her gruffly.  
  
“Bobby _._ ” She squeezes his hand with hers. “You’re… pretty much the only family I’ve got left. If I can help, I will. You just gotta say the word.”  
  
“Hell, girl,” he mutters. “You don’t needa give me those cow eyes of yours. It’s not me, not really. It’s the Winchesters. Had a big blowout. I mighta—threatened to shoot their dad.”  
  
“ _Bobby_!”  
  
“What?” he says, almost offended, like he didn’t just admit to nearly blowing away another hunter. “Don’t look at me. John’s damn _askin’_ for it, the way he treats them boys. And I got a temper.”  
  
She’s about to tell him that guns aren’t the best way to salve a temper when a metallic crash echoes through the house.  
  
“What the hell?”  
  
Bobby sighs again. “That’ll be Dean. He’s—doin’ maintenance in the salvage yard.”  
  
“With _explosives_?”  
  
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Bobby admonishes, his ginger whiskers fluffing up in indignation. “He’s real turned around, Allie. His brother left. Prolly for good. He’s—not taking it great.”  
  
Another monstrous clang, like someone’s taking a wrecking ball to a car.  
  
“I can go talk to him,” Alice offers hesitantly.  
  
Bobby gives her a look that tells her he thinks she’s gone off her rocker. “You been avoidin’ that kid like the plague, and now you’re _volunteering_ to see him?”  
  
“I know the Winchester boys mean a lot to you,” she explains. “And _you_ mean a lot to me. So—I’m offering.”  
  
He hesitates for a long moment, looking down at her hand on his, and she can practically hear the cogs in his head turning. His reticence is thick, foggy, but after a moment, it begins to clear, and she knows what his answer will be.  
  
“Alright,” Bobby says. “Go on and try. Work your mojo on him. He’s been at it for hours. Won’t even eat.”  
  
She pats his knuckles once, and then pulls away to make for the door to the backyard.

  
  


***

  
  


When she steps out into the midday sun, the summer heat washes over her, warming her shoulders and face. Her conversation with Bobby left her chilly; she welcomes every bit of warmth she can get.  
  
She wanders out into the salvage yard, spotting Dean after only a moment.  
  
He’s working under the hood of a gigantic pickup truck, completely absorbed in whatever task he’s assigned himself. He doesn’t even hear her coming. She watches him for a bit, the bunch and pull of his back and shoulders under his black muscle tee. He’s gotten taller since the last time they met.  
  
“Hey,” she says gently, and he dang near jumps out of his skin.  
  
Dean whirls around, a huge wrench held high like a club, eyes wild. There’s a smudge of grease on his right cheek.  
  
“What the—” His arm lowers, but the consternation and shock doesn’t leave his face. “Alice?”  
  
“Yeah. Hi,” she replies, slipping her hands into the pockets of her denim shorts. “It’s been a while.”  
  
The hard cast of his expression doesn’t break. “What do you want?”  
  
Aggression is prickling out of him in every direction, the quills of a porcupine standing at attention. Most of her encounters with him are characterized by that same sharpness, a tone of empathic frequency she’s come to associate with Dean; he’s all spines and misdirection, protective edges guarding a soft center. He’s the type of guy who’d die before admitting to any kind of self-perceived weakness, who probably only ever learned how to deal with things by punching them out.  
  
“To check on you, mostly,” Alice says, deciding on honesty. “Bobby’s worried about you. Won’t say it, but I know him.”  
  
“And _you’re_ the one for the job?” he asks incredulously, with more than a hint of a sneer. “Lemme refresh your memory—last time we talked, you blew me off. Bigtime. Haven’t even seen you in, like, a year. Why the _hell_ would I let you ‘check on’ me?”  
  
“Well, it’s not really a matter of letting,” she answers earnestly. “I could’ve just done it from afar.”  
  
His green eyes snap with anger. “And why didn’t you?”  
  
“Because I figure you needed something to yell at,” Alice quips. “And because it’s not healthy to be angry forever. It’ll burn you out.”  
  
He scoffs at her, like what she’s saying is utterly preposterous. Like he’s never heard a stupider thing. “What would you know?”  
  
“I know a lot,” she says, her steady cadence unchanged. “Spent most of my life angry or scared, or some mix between the two. I mean, somedays I’m still like that. Can’t help it. But I can help you, if you’ll let me.”  
  
He lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “Help me? You can’t.”  
  
“I mean it in the most literal sense, Dean,” Alice clarifies. “You were the one who told me the truth will out, right? Let me show you.”  
  
He stares at her like she’s lost her mind. Maybe she has, skating this close to spilling her biggest secret to a practical stranger. But she remembers the miserable look on Bobby’s face, the unbearable weight her empathy allows her to feel. That’s her sin and fatal flaw, she guesses— _feeling_. She always wants to lend a hand. Always wants to sort things out.  
  
“I’m not really into having my chain yanked,” he growls, all but throwing his wrench into an open toolbox on the ground. “So if you could get—whatever this is—over with, I’d be friggin’ grateful.”  
  
She takes a step toward him, almost stopping when he tenses, looking about ready to lunge, but whether it’s away or _at_ her, is debatable.  
  
“There’s so much buzzing around you,” she says, lifting one hand, palm-up, between them. “It’s a right headache. Give me your hand, Dean.”  
  
He looks down at the proffered limb as though it’s a snapping turtle.  
  
She remains where she is, not budging an inch.  
  
A breeze blows by, stirring up dust.  
  
“Fine. You wanna sing Kumbaya after, too?” he asks flippantly, and then slaps his palm down over hers.  
  
She curls her fingers around his, despite the jolt of the sudden connection. His hand is much bigger than hers, rougher, feverishly warm, except for the silver band on his ring finger. Everything she can filter out normally is inescapable during skin-on-skin contact, a river with no dam. She feels it all: he’s so hurt, _so hurt_ , it’s like his heart’s going to burst, he’s angry, and sad, and terrified, and directionless, and he’s scared in the way people get scared when they’re no longer sure of their future. It’s so intense and overwhelming that she’s surprised she managed to keep her balance through the initial flood of emotion.  
  
Channeling feelings to the other side through an open connection is comparable to riding a bike uphill. It’s a little difficult, at first, and you burn with the effort, but the resistance lessens after a while; then you hit the crest of the incline, cross over, and start heading downward. You can finally switch gears, and it’s the easiest it’s ever been. Like gliding.  
  
So she starts slow, with a gradual sensation of peace, lets it seep through the link. She actually sees Dean’s expression loosen, the furrow in his brow disappear. Then she channels calm—the feeling she gets whenever she visits her favorite spot of waterfront in Seattle. Lastly, a soft cloud of reassurance, a personal touch, purely selfish, but nonetheless helpful. It’s nice to hear the words _it’ll be alright_ , but feeling it is different, and far more powerful.  
  
Dean gasps. “What—are you…?”  
  
“Calming you down,” she says gently. “You’re twisted up tighter than the Gordian knot.”  
  
“Than the… what?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter. Is that helping?”  
  
He blinks, dazed, looking at her with glassy eyes.  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes.”  
  
She holds on for a little more before letting go, allowing his arm to fall back to his side. Dean takes a couple of steps back, leaning against the truck he’d been working on, his features slack. It doesn’t last long; awareness begins to creep back in, and though he’s definitely less of a powder keg than he was a minute ago, the cut of his suspicion is back.  
  
“What are you?” he demands, voice all steel.  
  
“Human,” she says simply. “Just with some extra features added.”  
  
He doesn’t like that answer. “What was that? You scrambling my brains?”  
  
“I’m an empath,” she clarifies. “Fancy way of saying I’m hypersensitive to emotion and the perception of it. I can sense what you’re feeling.”  
  
He’s floored by that revelation—surprise flits across his face—and then revulsed. “You can _read my mind_?”  
  
“Empath, Dean,” Alice reminds him. “Not a telepath. Your darkest fantasies are safe from me. Thank God.”  
  
Panic tinges his frequency, a sour note of discord. “What else can you do?”  
  
She hesitates for an instant, conditioned to imparting as little info as possible as she is. Then she sighs.  
  
“Projection,” Alice says. “Like what I just did. If I’m linked to someone, I can channel emotions through to them. That’s how I made you less pissed.”  
  
He takes it about as well as she expected him to. Which is to say, not at all. Dean shudders, like something’s crawling down his spine, pushes off from the car, and puts a solid ten feet between them, all the while keeping an eye on her. A very critical, very guarded eye. It’s a look she’s seen before. She’s not surprised.  
  
“If I wanted to hurt you,” she starts, exhausted, “I would have done it already. And years ago.”  
  
“Oh, thanks,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “That makes me feel _so_ much better.”  
  
“It should. You can’t fight what I do with a knife, or a gun. You know that, which is probably why you’re ten seconds away from peeing your pants.”  
  
“I am _not_!”  
  
“You totally are,” she says coolly. “I can tell, remember?”  
  
He mutters a string of expletives that would have a nun crossing herself.    
  
“And this is why I usually don’t tell people,” Alice says under her breath.  
  
He’s still looking at her with that apprehensive, distrustful gaze. “Were you—born like— _this_?”  
  
“With these looks? Yeah. All natural, my guy.”  
  
He scowls at her. “You know what I mean.”  
  
“Yes, Dean. Okay? I was born like this. I’m not cursed, I’m not hiding green skin and fangs. I just happen to fall under the category of what most would call psychic. That’s all.”  
  
He’s only a little mollified by that reply. A thread of surety enters his frequency, something to build on. His opinion is forming, settling like drying concrete. She can’t say she’s excited about the end result.  
  
“You look constipated,” she states bluntly.  
  
“Well, _excuse me_!” he hollers, throwing his arms up. “You just—you touched me, and then I suddenly—it’s like I’ve downed a bucket of Xanax, and everything’s fine, and I _felt_ —” He cuts himself off, biting on his bottom lip. “I need a second to adjust, dammit.”  
  
“Alright,” she murmurs, crossing her arms and closing herself off.  
  
He walks in a circle a couple of times, fast, ruffling at his cropped hair with his hands.  
  
“You’ve never pulled that crap with me before, right?” he blurts, turning to face her.  
  
“Dude, _no_ ,” Alice says, her voice rising. “I don’t do that to anyone— _anyone_! I always ask. I asked _you_. I just wanted to help, Dean. That’s all. You’ve known something was up with me for a while. I figured it was a way to kill two birds with one stone. Tell you by showing you.”  
  
The hardheaded note of stubbornness in his frequency softens, by a smidge.  
  
He wipes a hand over his cheek, smearing the grease there into a bigger mess. “Why tell me at all?”  
  
“It seemed like the right choice. Do you have any idea how hard it was to avoid you?” she says incredulously. “You’re like a limpet. I kept having to put off my supple drops since you were here. Or I’d have to dodge you when I was working a case, because you show up everywhere I go, like you’re following me. Are you _following_ me, Dean?”  
  
“What?” he says, and that single word is almost a yelp. “No!”  
  
“Good!” she practically shouts back. “Then—yeah, it looked like the smart thing to do. Better I tell you than you find out some other way.”  
  
Dean gives her a sidelong glance. “Does Bobby know?”  
  
“Of course. Only three people alive do. You’re… the third.”  
  
Actual, unadulterated shock filters through him, strong enough to make her catch her breath.  
  
“Um. Okay.” He swallows, like he’s digesting the information. “Wow.”  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Exactly. Wow. So, please, don’t go telling anybody.”  
  
He debates it for a moment, internally—she can see as much. But to her eternal relief, the next words out of his mouth are, “I won’t.”  
  
“I’ll hold you to that.”  
  
“And this was your big secret?”  
  
She shoots him a disbelieving look. “You don’t think this qualifies as a _big secret_?”  
  
“No, yeah—it sure does. I get why you’re so paranoid now.”  
  
“You think I’m _paranoid_?”  
  
He winces, having been caught in a rare moment of honesty. “Kinda? I mean, most hunters are squirrely. You’re just…”  
  
“I’m whatever I am for good reason,” she says firmly. “Well, whatever. At least you’re not gonna blow your top anymore. Mission accomplished.”  
  
He has the presence of mind to look a little ashamed, thankfully. “Yeah. About that—”  
  
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she cuts in. “I’ve already got a leg up on stuff, what with my empathy. You were hurt. _Are_ hurt. I’d be a sorry excuse of a human if I just… let you go through that. I can’t fix the root cause. That’s on you to deal with. But I can make it a little easier.”  
  
Dean’s features twist in discomfort—he’s obviously not used to being talked to this way. The implication of that makes her feel things she really shouldn’t.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, though it’s a little shaky.  
  
“So long as you keep your pretty lips from flapping, we’ll call it even, okay?”  
  
He flashes her a smirk, the insecurity of the last ten minutes melting away like snow under the sun. “‘Pretty lips?’”  
  
She ignores the preening. “I’m bad luck, Dean. Not blind. Either way—I should get going.”  
  
“Oh,” he says, sounding… disappointed. “Right. Um. I…”  
  
“See you around?”  
  
“Sure. See you around.”  
  
And those are the last, unremarkable words exchanged on the day Alice Montgomery and Dean Winchester begin a tentative friendship.


	8. HOWLING FUN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always felt like the show could have done more wrt humanizing the literal sentient creatures the boys mow through, so expect to see a lot of that in general
> 
> also had to make hunters more generally knowledgeable because it's just not plausible for them to be runnin around not knowing that pureblood werewolves don't exist from the getgo lol

***

**I-90 ROADSIDE**

**OUTSIDE RAPID CITY, SOUTH DAKOTA**

**2002**

***

  


Alice is busy enjoying the blue and cloudless August sky stretching over the mostly-empty interstate—and her chicken pesto sandwich—when her cell rings with a vengeance in her jean pocket.  
  
She sets her cherry soda down on the hood of the Capri and goes fishing for her cell. The caller ID winks out at her insistently: _BOBBY,_ in bold capitals. She swallows her current bite of lunch, maybe a little more unchewed than she would have liked, and takes the call.  
  
“Hey,” she greets, wiping at her mouth with a napkin. “What’s up?”  
  
“Allie,” Bobby’s gruff voice replies, “how far from Rapid City are you?”  
  
She blinks at the question. “Uh—a couple of hours out, at most. Why?”  
  
“It’s Dean,” Bobby grouses. “Stubborn son of a bitch is holed up there. He thinks the city's national park’s being trawled, being used by werewolves as a scouting site—to pick victims.”  
  
“And _you_ think he’s in over his head?” she asks, considering her sandwich in its saran wrap.  
  
“Yeah,” Bobby sighs. “Yeah, I do. And you’re the only one within spittin’ distance, so—”  
  
“Bobby, it’s okay,” Alice assures him. “This is what the network’s for. Just call him and give him a head’s up. Tell him to stay put and not do anything stupid.”  
  
She hears Bobby grumble. “Much easier said than done. Boy’s been pulling the riskiest crap, and John’s not even with him.”  
  
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get anything important bitten off. Don’t worry.”  
  
Another sigh, real heavy and exhausted, like just asking this of her is taking something out of him. Knowing Bobby, it probably is—hunters have the worst habit of thinking they can go it alone, most times. She’s well aware of it, since she’s one of the biggest offenders.  
  
“Watch yourself, y’hear?” Bobby says. “Don’t need to worry about _two_ of you.”  
  
“You got it,” she assures him. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”  
  
“And give the boy your damn number so I don’t have to play messenger pigeon.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, though she’s smiling. “Yes, Bobby.”  
  
“Anyway, here’s the address he’s at.”  
  
A couple of minutes later, she’s putting away her cell, and going about finishing her lunch.  
  
Eating while driving is an accident waiting to happen—and messy, besides. She tries to keep the inside of the Capri as clean as possible. The sandwich doesn’t last long against her appetite. She gulps down the rest of her soda, bundles up her trash, napkins, paper wrappers, and all, shoves them in the takeout bag, and then walks around the car to the trunk.  
  
It opens with a pop and a creak under the turn of the key in its lock; the sun beats down on her back and she surveys her personal arsenal.  
  
The trunk is small, and packed to the brim with things that would definitely get her arrested if they were seen by police officers. She supposes that much is true of any hunter, really. The contents are all categorized neatly—ammunition (sorted by relevance) at the very front for easy access, melee weapons just behind them, a gigantic mason jar full of rosaries to the side, firearms on the right, and several litres of distilled water in plastic jugs. Then there’s lengths of rope, two grappling hooks, the spare first aid kit, and coils of silver and copper wire. All in all, everything you need for a party.  
  
Alice digs into the ammo bag, going for her pistol magazines full of homemade silver bullets, and fishes out three of them. Overkill? Maybe. But preparation is the difference between life and death on the job—so it always pays to be prepared, even if said payment is not made with money.  
  
As she gears up, she decides she’s grateful for the fact that, at least, there’ll be no ghosts waiting for her at the end of this detour.

  


***

  


It’s nearing four in the afternoon and the sun is still going strong when she arrives at the Rapid City motel Bobby had mentioned.  
  
She pulls up next to the Impala, a car that stands out like a sore thumb in a parking lot whose only other occupants are beat-up sedans and one red Jeep. The motel itself isn’t that bad, actually, as far as average hunter hideouts go—it looks passably clean and even sort of welcoming, and the white paint on the building seems relatively fresh. Wonders will never cease, apparently.  
  
Alice decides that paying a visit before getting checked in would be pertinent, so she locks up the Capri and makes a beeline for room 102.  
  
She knocks on the red door once, twice, three times, and waits. The quietest of shuffles is heard on the other side, and then the door cracks open a smidge, revealing half of a familiar face and one green eye.  
  
“It’s just me, Rambo,” she says, waggling her fingers at him. “You expecting anyone else?”  
  
Dean sighs and swings the door wide, and his arm—the one holding a sawed-off shotgun—drops to his side. He looks much the same as the last time she saw him, except for a healing scrape over his right brow.  
  
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says, squinting at her. “What the hell happened to your hair? And your _face_?”  
  
She shoulders past him and into the room, not really feeling up to discussing that out in the open. When the door shuts behind her, she turns to face him, one hand fluffing the fringe of now-red hair hanging over her forehead. She hears him suck in a breath when she takes off her sunglasses and he sees the nice shiner she’s got going. His frequency resonates with notes of—what is that, concern? She hooks her glasses to the front of her shirt.  
  
“The hair’s doing its job if you couldn’t tell it was me, even for a bit,” she admits. “It’ll be gone in a couple of showers. I kinda like it this way, though.”  
  
His expression immediately tells her he doesn’t concur.  
  
She laughs. “What’s _that_ face for?”  
  
“Nothing,” he says quickly. He blinks fast, looking to the side. “You’re fine without dye jobs. That’s all.”  
  
“Well, like I said, it’s temporary,” Alice reminds him. “My natural color kind of—stands out, so it needed to go for a while. But I didn’t drive three and a half hours to talk about my roots, Dean.”  
  
That gauzy impression of embarrassment and something else—something fluttery and fleeting—filters through his frequency, a feeling she’s gotten from him only once, a year or two back during their second conversation ever in Nebraska. She can’t really dissect it, or what it could mean. She doesn’t know enough about him to be able to make conclusions like that. The funny thing about emotions is that they never come divorced from context, _especially_ when it has to do with human beings. Knowing what someone’s feeling is always only going to be half of the picture. She hopes she’ll remember that, and not go chasing after the other half.  
  
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Do you want some ice for that eye?”  
  
“I’m good,” she tells him. “Took some painkillers earlier.”  
  
The room is nicely-furnished: there’s a polished nightstand beside the single bed, and a handsome writing table under the window on the adjacent wall. Dean’s duffel peeks out from beneath the bed, a dark bulky shadow. His jacket is draped over the back of one of the table’s two chairs, and a half-drunk bottle of Jack stands as a paperweight over a sheaf of what she assumes is research  of some kind.  
  
“Cozy,” she remarks.  
  
He snorts. “Yeah. Home sweet home.”  
  
She makes her way over to the table and occupies the chair without anything hanging from it, stretching her legs and sighing. He refastens the lock on the door, and leaves the shotgun on the bed.  
  
“You ready to talk shop?” she says.  
  
“Always.”  
  
He sits down across from her, pushing a printed map of Skyline Wilderness Park at her with two fingers. A circle’s been drawn over a section of the area titled as Skyline Trails. He taps it with his index.  
  
“Every victim—three in three days, outside of the usual moon cycle, by the way—was part of some charity hike that happened a week ago on Skyline Trails. You donate, you get to walk. Sounds like a crap deal, if you ask me.”  
  
Alice chuckles at his indignant tone. “Yeah, Dean, charity usually doesn’t usually involve sitting around and bacon and beer.”  
  
“Well, it _should_ ,” he says emphatically. “Either way, first I thought our mutt just used the trails as a staking ground and picked at random, because the vics were nothing alike—jobs, appearance, exercise habits, yadda yadda. Then I found out about the hike.”  
  
“A common denominator,” she murmurs, her eyes trailing over the map.  
  
He raises a brow at her. “Sure, Miss Fancy. A _common denominator_.”  
  
“Don’t be glib, Winchester.”  
  
“Okay, _Harvard_.”  
  
She glares at him, lips pursing. “The point. When are we getting to it?”  
  
“There’s a list,” he says, but not without a small eye-roll being included. “Of donors, that is. I got a copy from the charity that sponsored the hike. Only two people have access to it, and one of them’s on a family vacation in Hawaii.”  
  
“So whoever’s left is our resident hungry dog,” Alice mutters, propping her chin up on her knuckles. “Straightforward enough. Good work.”  
  
A ripple of pride echoes through his frequency. “I _am_ pretty good at what I do.”  
  
“What’s their name? The werewolf?”  
  
Dean’s eyes flicker down to the papers. He digs a document out from under the rest and shoves it her way. “Lindsay West. Moved here a couple of months ago. Economics graduate, mid-twenties, and a big fan of the all-you-can-eat heart buffet.”  
  
Alice looks down at the ID picture on the document: a sweet-faced girl is staring up at her with blue eyes. There are freckles over the bridge of her nose, on the curves of her cheeks, and the fair skin of her neck. She’s very pretty, in an extraordinarily average way, with her long dark hair and softly shaped brows. And if Dean is right, she’s going to die tonight.  
  
“Something the matter?” Dean asks.  
  
Alice glances up to see him scrutinizing her. “No. Why?”  
  
“You were looking at the photo kinda funny.”  
  
“I was just thinking it’s a shame things have to be this way,” she says with a shrug. “They have to eat what they have to eat, and we have to kill them to survive.”  
  
His upper lip curls in disgust. “You gotta be joking. You telling me you _sympathize_?”  
  
She shrugs again. “Sympathy won’t stop me from doing my job. It’s a matter of protecting people. But it’s good to remember to not become Terminator.”  
  
“That’s one of the best things about the job,” he protests. “It’s simple. No philosophizing. Monsters are evil. They hurt people. We gank them. End of story.”  
  
“I wish I could think that way,” Alice says, smiling ruefully. “I’d be a lot less of a mess if I did.”  
  
“Why don’t you, then?”  
  
Alice traces the border of Lindsay’s photo with the edge of one of her nails. Her voice is very low when she speaks next. “Because most of the time, it’s people who hurt people. Who’s ganking _those_ monsters?”  
  
Unease ripples through Dean’s frequency, a sour note of uncertainty. He doesn’t reply.

  


***

  


When the light in the sky begins to dim, they pile into the Impala and head out.  
  
Lindsay West’s home is a handsome, two-story house sitting right at the end of a lonely cul de sac hemmed in by towering trees. The neighborhood is dotted with similar houses, orderly structures with triangular roofs and pristine mailboxes in their front yards. The place may as well have been deserted—Alice sees no other cars, and every house’s windows are lightless squares of grey, all except Lindsay’s. Despite how picturesque everything looks, Alice is developing a serious case of the heebie jeebies.  
  
Dean parks on the other side of the street, across from the target house, and silences the engine.  
  
“She’s already home,” Dean says as the rumbling purr of the Impala dies away into nothing. “Gets off work at six. There’s two ways to get outta the house on ground level, and three windows on the second floor, which means five exits total.”  
  
“Werewolves are kinda like rabid sleepwalkers. Creatures of habit,” Alice points out. “She’ll probably use whatever exit she goes for during the day.”  
  
He gives an unconvinced grunt.  
  
“Honestly? I say we just go for it the minute she kills the lights,” she suggests, crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat. “Better to face her when she’s a receptionist, not high on wolf steroids. Element of surprise.”  
  
Dean’s eyes flicker to the side, looking at her for a moment. “You could handle that?”  
  
“Done it more than once.”  
  
His face betrays no surprise, but his frequency does—there’s a tiny, flinty pebble of it, flicking itself against her mind.  
  
“Guess I shouldn’t have worried,” Dean mumbles.  
  
They sit in companionable quiet for some time, getting comfortable with the idea of a long wait.  
  
Stakeouts are never exciting, but you have to stay alert throughout regardless. It’s by far the most mind-numbing part of the job, even when you compare it to dingy motels and shitty food and slogging through birth records or ancient town newspapers.  
  
“How’re you holding up?” Alice asks.  
  
Dean’s forehead creases—that always means he’s thinking hard and unhappily, she’s come to learn. “Fine.”  
  
“Ah, yeah. I can tell.”  
  
“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”  
  
“You do remember I can sense what you’re feeling, right?”  
  
Now he scowls, lips skinning back over white teeth. “Then why the hell ask at all?”  
  
“Courtesy, for one,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the house. “And to see if you wanted to talk about it. Or, rather, if you’d admit that you do.”  
  
Maybe it’s the failing light, the encroaching summer night, but Dean almost looks pale.  
  
“You keep your psychic tentacles outta my head, and I’ll be _peachy_.”  
  
She kind of wants to throttle him. “I can’t turn it off, genius. Learning how to shut out most frequencies took years. But you’re like a jumbo-sized stereo, blasting feelings all over the place. I don’t exactly have intradimensional earplugs available at the minute, so, you know, I figured I’d offer what usually solves inner turmoil.”  
  
He stares at her blankly.  
  
“ _Conversation_ , Dean. I meant conversation.”  
  
“Okay, wiseass. I don’t do ‘conversations,’” he says, being needlessly aggressive with the air quotes. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Yes, you’ve said that.”  
  
“In fact, I’m doing _great_. I get to hunt on my own, in my own car, not having to take orders, or listen to _friendly suggestions_ , or getting friggin’ blindsided by an overgrown bitch-baby who feels the need to shit on everything I try to do to keep the show going!” Dean’s almost yelling by the end of that sentence, arms crossed tightly across his chest, breathing heavy. “I get to sleep when I want, eat what I want, _when_ I want, pick up the chicks I want, and all without having to hear a single goddamn whiny, fussy, pissy, _pussy-ass_ complaint about why I do things the way I do. So, I’m fantastic. I’m _golden_. Not a care in the fuckin’ world.”  
  
She lets him settle down, feeling every change in his frequency as the top layers of discordant anger peel away, leaving something far more vulnerable and raw exposed. It’s that hurt again, the deep, unabiding pain she met for the first time in Bobby’s salvage yard. This sense of abandonment is eating him alive. He wants his brother back—it’s clear as day.  
  
“Feel a little better?” Alice inquires carefully.  
  
“Maybe,” he responds. “Guess I had some stuff to say.”  
  
She huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah, seems that way.”  
  
Dean pauses, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor of the car. “What about you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“Still running from whatever it is that stuck you?”  
  
Her innards turn to ice. “Uh—”  
  
“That’s the reason for the hair, isn’t it? Easiest thing to change on a person, but makes a big difference.”  
  
There’s no point in denying it, though it makes her feel sick. She stares down at her clasped hands, nodding. “You got it right.”  
  
“Why don’t you just shoot ‘em in the face? You’ve got guns.”  
  
She glances at him. “It’s not a supernatural problem.”  
  
Dean blinks. His realization drops like a boulder, plummeting through his frequency at the speed of a launched rocket.  
  
“Oh,” is all he offers after struggling for a while.  
  
She shifts uncomfortably. “It’s… complicated.”  
  
“What isn’t?” he says with a grumble.  
  
She’s thinking about how to reply when the Lindsay’s bedroom lights wink out.  
  
“Dean,” she says, sitting up.  
  
He immediately goes from awkward to hyper-alert, eyes sharpening into focus. He looks at her for a moment before opening the driver’s door and stepping out.  
  
“Let’s roll.”

  


***

  


Dean keeps a lookout while she picks the lock to the back door.  
  
There were times, as a kid, where she’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, terrified that she’d hear a sound that would prove to her beyond doubt that someone was breaking in—and here she is, some twenty years later, with more break-ins under her belt than some serial robbers. Life’s funny that way. And stupid. And so, so ironic.  
  
“Tonight, doc,” Dean says behind her.  
  
She ignores the jibe. “Patience is a virtue, Winchester.”  
  
The lock clicks and gives just as she finishes that sentence, and the door swings open soundlessly.  
  
Dean takes point—because of course—pistol drawn, as they move into the darkened, silent house.  
  
It’s a real nice place, decorated tastefully, full of matching furniture and prettily-framed art of pastoral, sweeping landscapes. Also—tons of vintage, laminated Pink Floyd posters. Someone’s a fan.  
  
Dean shoots the fluffy rug they’re walking on a revolted glance.  
  
They pass through the living room, which is across a fashionable, green-tiled kitchen, and approach a stairwell—which is, mercifully enough, also carpeted. Less noise. Dean heads up first, moving with stealth perfected by years of relentless training. He’s entirely different on the job—still sarcastic, still a smartmouth, but cleanly efficient, like a well-oiled machine.  
  
The top floor is basically one long, dimly-lit hallway of doors on either side. Which means they’re going to have to open each and every one—very quietly.  
  
The first couple of ones go fine; there’s a guest room, a small office, a bathroom, all similarly empty.  
  
Down to the last two.  
  
Dean meets her eyes as they prepare to breach the second-to-last door, but two seconds later it turns out they shouldn’t have bothered: the door breaks open in a shower of splinters, and someone who is definitely not Lindsay West comes hurtling out, latching his hands around Dean’s neck.

So much for the element of surprise.

The two men fall to the ground like a bag of bricks, wrestling with each other. Dean’s pistol clatters against the wall, coming to rest on the floor, and Alice is just done being grateful that it didn’t accidentally discharge when something hits her from behind.  
  
Ah. Found Lindsay.  
  
Alice hits the carpet with enough force to knock the wind from her, and the werewolf straddles her. Claws scrabble at her throat, opening lines down her cheeks and over her lips. She spits blood into Lindsay’s enraged, warped face; a gob of it catches her in one wolfish eye, making her rear back. Alice rams a fist into her cheek.  
  
“Bitch!” Lindsay shrieks. She tumbles off when Alice bucks up, disrupting the center of balance.  
  
Killing Lindsay is insultingly easy. Alice presses her advantage mercilessly, reversing their position in seconds. Now she’s the one on top, and a silver knife is sliding into her hand, down from her sleeve. Lindsay really is as pretty in real life as she was in the picture—though her teeth are now bristling fangs, and her eyes burn yellow. Those eyes roll back in her skull when Alice jams the knife into the soft underside of her jaw, piercing straight through the roof of her mouth and into her brain. The silver hisses, burning her like acid. Blood flows, hot and fresh, over Alice’s knuckles, soaking her sleeve, turning the front of Lindsay’s pajama shirt into a slippery mess.  
  
The girl who loved Pink Floyd is dead.  
  
The corpse is still making odd gurgling sounds when she yanks the knife free and turns to face the tangle of limbs that is Dean and the mystery man.  
  
She doesn’t think, not for long, just lunges forward and plunges the knife into the mystery man’s back. The flesh steams and holds fast. A pained yowl is her reward—and his resulting agonized flailing knocks her clean off her feet again. He has fists like wrecking balls, and her head is going to hurt tomorrow morning.  
  
For a moment, all she can see is the mask of rage that is this nameless werewolf’s face—the stretch of his snarl, the grief and anger radiating from him like heat from an open flame. He knows his mate is gone—and the blistering force of his fury is righteous, and hurt, and reckless.  
  
_Pop, pop._  
  
Two spots of red bloom on his striped shirt. Alice hears the hiss of silver.  
  
The man crumples lifelessly, a puppet with its strings severed, and Alice props herself up on her elbows. Dean is still on the floor, but he’s got his pistol, and it’s still in firing position. He gets to his feet slowly: he’s got a bloodied nose and a split lip, but otherwise seems unharmed. She gratefully accepts his hand when he offers it, and lets him yank her up.  
  
They look over the bodies together, taking a moment to process that they’ve survived yet again.  
  
“Two for one,” Dean says, finally, his voice hoarse.  
  
“Yeah,” Alice murmurs. “Seems like it.”  
  
The burning tug of the second werewolf’s frequency is still bouncing around in her head, a wailing ghost. It will be like that for some time. A win is just not in the cards for her. Oh, well.   
  
Case closed.


End file.
